


opening skies with your broken keys

by thisismy_design (thisismydesignn)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anchors, Anger, Angst, Blood, Consensual Violence, Kissing, M/M, Punching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1830064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismydesignn/pseuds/thisismy_design
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"At the time when Stiles is pretty upset about the Sheriff being kidnapped, because he’s his dad, Derek and Stiles would just drive around in the Jeep looking for the Sheriff. And, you know, Derek’s anchor is anger so he knows what it feels like. And Stiles would just be so angry about the situation, so they would stop the car and Derek would let Stiles punch him, over and over, just letting out his anger, until he couldn’t hit anymore, and Derek would be bloody and Stiles would just let it all out and Derek would tell him ‘that’s okay. It’s okay.’ That would have been a great scene."</i> --Tyler Hoechlin (<a href="http://wntrsoldier.tumblr.com/post/88507620934/at-the-time-when-stiles-is-pretty-upset-about-the">x</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	opening skies with your broken keys

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely Hoechlin's fault. I won't be surprised if anyone has already written this-- probably much better than I could!-- and I feel as though there's far more that can be done with this situation, but I wanted to get this finished before S4 starts. So I hope y'all enjoy it nonetheless!
> 
> Warnings for the usual run-on sentences and italics abuse. Title from "Spectrum" by Zedd.

“Stiles. Stop.”

Stiles doesn’t stop the car, doesn’t indicate that he’s even heard Derek; still, his fingers turn white against the steering wheel, his jaw tightens, and Derek knows.

“Stiles. _Pull over._ ”

He can feel Stiles’ resistance, can sense it building alongside the anxiety, the terror, but most of all the _anger_ that threatens to overwhelm him, that sets his hands trembling and leaves his heart racing in his chest. Derek knows it all too well, imagines how long Stiles has held it in, thinks of the destruction he’ll leave in his wake once he finally, _finally_ lets it go. He’s not sure Stiles will be able to pick up the pieces— of his world, of himself, and for some reason that frightens Derek more than anything.

He’s _thisclose_ to taking the wheel himself, to _making_ them pull over, when Stiles finally relents. The fight goes out of him all at once, too quickly but not enough, and suddenly there’s silence, only silence between them, heavy and just as suffocating as the anger that threatens to drown them both.

Then Derek’s opening his door, stepping out and slamming it shut, and he only half-expects Stiles to follow but then there he is, looking expectantly up, anxiously down, and all Derek can say is “hit me.”

“ _What?_ ”

It’s the first time Stiles has spoken in hours, maybe, and Derek thinks of all the times he could never get Stiles to shut up and wishes like hell he could take every word back. He’d give anything— anything, of what little he has to give— to know that Stiles is okay, but he knows he isn’t, knows he won’t be for a long, long time.

So he offers the only thing he can.

“Hit me. I know what it is you’re feeling.” _It’s in my veins as much as yours,_ he doesn’t say. “It’s what keeps me human,” he does, and sees the surprise that flickers across Stiles’ face. Derek didn’t mean to tell him— to reveal so much of himself, to someone not even in his pack, but then, Stiles _is_ his pack, isn’t he? In every way that matters, even if he can’t say it, tongue tied up somewhere in his chest with the remainder of his sanity and his self-control.

For a moment, he thinks Stiles is going to argue. To turn to words, excuses, like he always does, speaking too quickly for Derek to get a word in edgewise—

—and then Derek sees his fingers curl into a fist.

“Yes,” he says, and it’s barely a whisper, like he’s trying not to spook Stiles, and there’s some irony in that, he thinks; braces himself, hears Stiles draw a shaking breath, shuts his eyes.

The first hit isn’t as vicious as he’d expected— as he’d hoped. Stiles is holding back, like he doesn’t need this, like Derek doesn’t deserve this, from him, of all people. “More,” he hisses, feels a fist collide with his jaw. “Harder,” through gritted teeth, and Stiles doesn’t relent. Derek can feel it in the desperation, the force behind each punch— he’s finally letting it out, letting it _go_ , and even between hits Derek bares his teeth in a grin, feral, wild.

A punch to the stomach knocks the breath from his lungs, leaves him doubled over, gasping, but he can take it, and Stiles no longer needs his permission. He hits Derek over and over, until he’s bleeding, healing, his face sticky and sore, Stiles’ knuckles painted red. He’s breathing hard, the sound of his panting harsh in Derek’s ears, but Derek focuses instead on the sharp crack of skin on skin, the pain that lances through him— dulled quickly, too quickly, when all he wants to offer Stiles is _more_.

Derek’s back hits the cool metal of the Jeep and he thinks of how, once, that damn car would have been Stiles’ chief concern— before werewolves, before the darach, before the utter madness of Beacon Hills had come to light. He wishes, somehow, he could give that back to him; then, selfishly, _but would I ever have known him?_

A jab high against Derek’s cheekbone sends a bruise blossoming across his skin, a bolt of pain where his head hits the window at his back, and he hears Stiles’ breath hitch, sees his fists loosen, his arms fall limply at his sides. He’s surveying the damage, Derek realizes— torn between awe and horror at what he’s done, what Derek _let_ him do. Derek tries to breathe, to tell him _it’s okay, it’s what you needed, what I wanted_ , but he can feel it when the atmosphere between them shifts, when Stiles’ anger falls away and all that’s left is a distinct sense of relief.

Then Stiles is stepping forward, taking Derek’s face in his hands, kissing him hard and messy on his bloodstained mouth. It’s a shock, maybe, or maybe it’s been inevitable all along— either way, Derek’s lips open beneath Stiles’, and he hopes the taste of copper on his tongue is a reminder, an anchor like the blood on his hands, the bruises that decorate his knuckles. There’s anger, but there’s relief, too— there’s fear and there’s fighting back, and as Stiles pulls away, his fingers no longer tremble.  
  


* * *

  
They return to the loft in silence, but it’s tense in a different way, the air thick with unasked questions, uncertain answers, the unspoken gratitude in Stiles’ gaze as he glances sidelong at Derek’s bloodied face, unable to quite look him in the eye.

When Stiles finally pulls up to the curb, there’s a hesitation in his movements that Derek has never seen. He watches, torn, as Stiles opens his mouth to speak—

—and Derek cuts him off with a kiss instead, one that asks as many questions as it answers.

“Later,” he promises, surprised to find himself grinning at Stiles’ groan of frustration as Derek climbs out of the car, shutting the door and leaning back to talk to him through the open window. “We’ll find him. I promise,” and that’s not like him, making promises he may not be able to keep, but something tells him this is different, because it’s _Stiles_ , because somehow it matters so much more. “And remember, what you’re feeling?” He reaches in, presses the tips of his fingers to Stiles’ chest, feels his heartbeat stutter. “Don’t fight it. Use it.” He reaches up, traces his thumb over Stiles’ lower lip, and then he’s gone, because if he doesn’t leave Stiles’ side now, he thinks, he never will.

From the window of his apartment, he watches the Jeep linger at the curb. Derek knows he can’t do any more for him, but he stays until Stiles pulls away, watches as long as he can, catching sight of his reflection as the sky outside grows progressively darker. He’s still covered in blood, dried to a dull reddish brown that flakes away easily, trapped beneath his nails. Not for the first time, he imagines them turning to claws, tearing his skin to shreds— but for once, he realizes, the anger isn’t there, the keen edge of rage that would always remind him he _could_.

With a sigh, his breath obscuring the reflection of his ruined face, Derek turns away to wash the blood from his skin— though he knows the bruises linger far deeper, somewhere in the press of Stiles’ lips to his own, the pattern of fingerprints that line his jaw, trace a path down to his chest, to the heart that beats an erratic rhythm beneath.


End file.
